


The Past and the Present

by lettertoelise



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, F/M, I mean-any angst is appropriate to allow for character growth?, Memory Loss, Not so much fluff or angst as feels?, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertoelise/pseuds/lettertoelise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His gaze falls to the ground, settling on the concrete below, peppered in cigarette butts and the lingering stains of forgotten adventures.  “I remember sometimes,” he says softly.</p><p>The intensity of Jemma’s gaze is hard to ignore, but he pushes on.  “Just the edges of things, really.  The end of a quarrel, the way your hair looks in the rain.  Nothing solid.”</p><p>***<br/>It's been four years since Jemma and Fitz last saw one another and now the memories that once held them together are lost.  How does he find his way back to her and the person he used to be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is predictable format for me - but I could piece together stories in vignettes until the end of time!!
> 
> Expect maybe 7 chapters? My intention is to update once a week.

2:00am  

 

Jemma is staring at the numbers projected on the ceiling.  For the third day in a row she has found herself like this, drenched in sweat with the covers thrown off, staring at the clock with eyes that burn but cannot sleep.

 

Outside the city resets, the tentative quiet pierced only by the rumble of a train that slightly shakes the windows and rattles the dishes in their cupboards.  Jemma stretches to turn on the light, hands fumbling for the reading glasses she leaves on the nightstand and decides there are worse ways to whittle away the night than with a book.

 

It’s her phone, buzzing angrily in the quiet, that she doesn’t expect.  

 

[Fitz]:  Are you awake?

 

[Jemma]:  How’d you know?

 

[Fitz]:  Because I am too.  

  


***

 

_The fighting was so loud Jemma could hear it in the floorboards, their voices escalating and overlapping in the relentless crescendo of a song no child wants to hear.  It was enough her cheeks were painted with tears, fingers stuffed in her ears, but her body was shaking and the shouting wouldn’t stop._

 

_Jemma didn’t need light to pad over to the window, lift the latch and pull herself to hang over the edge.  Her foot caught the familiar support of a tree branch in a maneuver well-rehearsed and she lowered her body to crawl along it’s length, slipping down the trunk._

 

_Fitz’s room was on the first floor and when she tapped the window lightly with her knuckles, the light snapped on and he was there, bleary eyed and yawning, lifting the screen as Jemma folded herself inside.  The force of her head against his chest knocked him backwards as she flung her arms around his shoulders and made her home there.  He was lean, almost gangly in his teenage body, all angles and bones, but somehow still soft as she pressed into him.  Fitz only chuckled softly, patting down her hair and bringing his arms around to rub her back._

 

 _As Jemma’s body grew limp with fatigue, the two found themselves curled up on Fitz’s narrow twin size bed, his form wrapped protectively around hers, fingers laced, breathing as one_.

 

***

 

By the afternoon, Jemma’s limbs are lead and it requires her every effort to cross the lab and attend to her samples.  It’s the third time she’s fruitlessly forced herself to blink in hopes of clearing her blurred vision, but no amount of coffee can tame the sting of exhaustion that pricks into her very bones.  She looks up as Skye flounces in through the glass doors and grinds to a halt.

 

“Simmons, you look terrible,” the small brunette says bluntly, throwing herself into Jemma’s office chair and kicking her feet to rest on the desk.  Jemma shoots Skye a pointed look and moves to gather the papers, now knocked loose by the young woman’s feet.  

 

“Don’t use me as an excuse to procrastinate, Skye.  Whatever work you’re avoiding isn’t worth Coulson’s death stare.”

 

Skye huffs but doesn’t concede.  “How could he disapprove of me coming to show concern for my best friend?”  There is a devilish grin on her face but it quickly fades as Jemma comes closer.  “But seriously, Jemma, have you even slept in the last 48 hours?”  

 

There’s a beauty that haunts her friend, that threads itself along the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the tilt of her jaw but finds its resting place in her heart.  It’s a strange companionship they’ve built, a would-be loner/hacker and a calculating scientist, but somehow Jemma has found comfort in the warmth of Skye’s gentle teasing, her easy nature and good humor.  

 

“It’s nothing to worry about, just an imbalance in my internal clock.  I’m sure everything will return to normal in a day or two.”

 

Skye raises a skeptical eyebrow but lets it pass.  She is twisting in loose half circles, hands pressed palm down on the armrests of the rickety swivel chair.  Setting a hand on her hip in playful annoyance, Jemma puts her beaker down, a soft sigh escaping.  

 

“It’s just -” she begins, pausing for a moment, the unwanted guest of uncertainty crawling into her voice, “Do you ever feel like your body knows something you don’t?  Like it’s waiting for something but you’re not sure what?”

 

Skye snickers at her friend’s sudden wistful expression, stopping the desk chair to stare Jemma straight in the eye.  “Are you serious?  Jemma ‘science queen’ Simmons is asking me if I have ever felt an other-wordly connection to the future?  Man, you really do need to get some sleep.”

 

“Fine,” Jemma returns, grimacing, “Hey - don’t you have work to do somewhere?”

 

On the desk, Jemma’s cell phone lights up with a buzz.

 

[Fitz]:  It’s snowing.

 

[Jemma]:  That’s because it’s January.  And you’re in Boston.

 

Jemma doesn’t even register the smile playing across her lips, how she pauses in the middle of her analyses to check the message and type a quick reply.  But Skye does.  She has for a while.   

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Mmm?” It’s a sound more than a question but Jemma looks up quizzically, as if broken from some train of thought.  

 

“You know, the person who texts you all the time?  Jemma, that phone is like an extension of your hand.”

 

There is color rushing to Jemma’s cheeks, despite her efforts to hide it.  She bows her head over the equipment, ducking behind the curtain of her auburn hair.  “Just an old friend, Skye.  And I don’t text him _all_ the time.”

 

“Him?”  Skye’s eyes are suddenly wide and she is leaning forward on her elbows, face all curiosity as she cradles it in her hands.  

 

“An old friend, Skye,” Jemma repeats with a sigh, “And he lives in America, so don’t get any ideas.”  

 

“How old?”

 

“Ugh.”  Jemma is nervously straightening glassware on the shelves, peaking at petri dishes like a butterfly that can’t choose between flowers, but Skye is staring at her with a satisfied half-smile, and Jemma finally retreats.  Stopping at the desk, she haughtily leans into the wooden edge and crosses her arms.  “Drop it please?”

 

“Definitely not.”

 

Jemma rolls her eyes but her mouth is pulled into a tight line.  Her apprehension is obvious; her shoulders are pulled tight to her ears and her voice has raised an octave in pitch.  She’s chewing on her bottom lip, eyes directed at the floor until finally she ventures, “Enough for today?”  

 

Taking Jemma's hand, Skye gives it a gentle squeeze.  “Enough for today.”

  
  


***

 

_Snow drifted lazily, pulled by the gentle breeze, to fall on the shoulders of Fitz’s secondhand peacoat, sticking momentarily before returning to water.  The frigid air had turned Fitz’s cheeks and nose ever so slightly pink to stand out against the rest of his pale face but his eyes were vivid blue against the colorless landscape and they were fixed on her with a mischievous twinkle._

 

_“So, Simmons,” he said impishly, “Not everyone knows how to create the perfect snowball.”_

 

_Jemma raised an eyebrow, meeting the challenge in his voice, “Oh really?”_

 

_“You see, Jemma,” he said, crouching low to sweep a handful of snow into his palm and remove his glove.  “It’s all about just the right application of heat . . .”_

 

_They were standing knee deep in the stuff, Jemma bundled almost excessively in a puffy green parka, scarf and giant hat.  She painted quite the contrast to Fitz’s sleek form, clad in wool and black gloves, curls barely peeking from beneath the beanie on his head.  As he packed the snow into an even tighter sphere, his grin grew dangerous._

 

_“Fitz-you wouldn’t dare.” Jemma warned, picking up her feet to push ahead through the thick snow.  But she wasn’t fast enough - the impact of Fitz’s snowball hit her square between the shoulder blades._

 

_Jemma spun around to meet his eyes, blown wide with the thrill of her anger, and she began to form a snowball of her own.  “Leopold Fitz, you’re in for it now!” she shouted as he let out what sounded like a snort and began to scamper away._

 

_“You are going to rue the day you ever decided to throw a snowball at me!”  This time her voice was colored with giggles, and she closed in on him, launching her body forward and tackling his thin frame into the snow._

 

_He was on his back, belly up like a beetle with Jemma half-tangled in his limbs, her head pressed into his cheek as she erupted into laughter.  Victoriously, she gathered a clump of snow between her gloved fingers and crushed it in his face as he cried out at the sting of its cold contact._

 

_“Jemma Simmons,” he called out, exasperated and breathless, “you are absolutely the worst best friend I’ve ever had.”_

 

_***_

 

“Jemma Simmons!  That guy was smoking hot!”  Skye exclaims as the attractive guest at their table makes his way back to the bar.  

 

Jemma shrugs, nursing her beer, letting the bottle dangle loosely between her fingertips.  “He has a low body fat percentage and his face is nice and symmetrical, but - he _is_ a bit boring.”

 

With her last remark Jemma nods her head a bit larger than she’d intended.  The two drinks she’s already had are hitting her harder than she wants to let on but it’s fun sitting in this booth with Skye, laughing and flirting with the muscle headed jocks who keep detouring in the direction of her beautiful friend.  

 

“I know, I know,” Skye teases, her voice gravelly from shouting over the music, “You’re still pining for text message guy.  I haven’t forgotten about him.” Jemma is blushing as Skye continues, “Where is he tonight, by the way?  No action from your phone all day!”  

 

Jemma brings the mouth of her bottle to her lips, dramatically tilting it back.  Skye’s tone is teasing, but she feels her mood dampen.  Her phone has been still for a few days, emitting phantom vibrations which are met with disappointment as Jemma checks for messages that aren’t there.  

 

“We don’t text _all_ the time, Skye, remember?” Jemma huffs, defensively.  

 

“ _Right_ .  Of _course_ not.” Skye is smiling, elbows resting on the table as she goads her friend affectionately.  “Spill it, Simmons.”

 

Resting her shoulders back into the corner of the booth, Jemma let’s out a sigh.  Her beer is almost done and she can feel herself loosening under the influence of alcohol and Skye’s affable company.  

 

“Well,” she begins, “Very long story short - we were neighbors - he moved in next door with his mum after his dad died.  We were best friends.  Inseparable, really.”

 

Leaning over, intrigued, Skye sets her drink down on the table.  “So what happened?”

 

Hesitating, Jemma lets out a long breath.  “Oh, I don’t know.  We graduated Uni.  I got a job here and he accepted an offer in Boston where we’d gone to school, and -” Jemma breaks, eyes darting to the farthest corner of the bar.  “And we haven’t seen each other since,” she adds in a whisper.  

 

Skye is momentarily silent, lips pursed as she processes.  “How long has it been?”

 

“Since what?”

 

“Since you’ve seen him, dummy!” Skye exclaims, dramatically pounding a fist on the table.

 

“Four years.”

 

“Four years?!  Jesus, Jemma!  The guy’s obviously into you.  He texts you like, all the time!”

 

Jemma goes quiet, her throat suddenly dry.  “Not all the time.”

 

She decides then to throw back the rest of her drink, glass slamming the table on the way down with unexpected force.  Before she has a chance to sink deeper into her thoughts, however, Skye has redirected the conversation to gossip in the lab and Jemma finds her smile returning again.  But her fingers ghost unconsciously over her phone, wishing it would vibrate.  

  


***

 

_They had been sitting next to one another on the bench for 20 minutes but neither dared speak.  A study in contrast, Jemma stared down at the ground, wound tightly into herself while Fitz stared straight up, all loose limbs, legs spread wide._

 

_Somehow the silence between them wasn’t quiet, it sat on their shoulders, reveling in the shared knowledge of what was to come._

 

_Jemma had tried to be excited about graduation, forcing herself to smile for photos and save the tears for when she was alone.  But looking at Fitz, engulfed by the enormous black robe, trying and failing to look happy, felt like staring into heartache, and she found all cheer disintegrating as the moment approached when they’d have to say goodbye._

_  
_ _“I don’t want to go.”  The words escaped in a whisper, barely audible over the bustle of cars and traffic.  Fitz reached over to take her hand but his eyes remained fixed on the sky, his breathing shallow and ragged._

 

_“It’ll be Ok.”_

 

_“But you were supposed to take the job, not me.”  She could hear the shake in her voice, and the words caught in her throat but when she looked at him, his lips held the faintest of smiles, his glassy eyes struggling to be bright._

 

_“You’ll get to go home, Jemma, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s London extension has the best lab facilities.  That’s why you’re taking it, you’re a better researcher anyway.”  He spoke smoothly, calm despite the wobble in his knee._

 

_Jemma swept a palm over her face as a tear slipped over the curve of her cheekbone, choking on her own words as they spilled out, “No.  I’m not leaving you here.  That’s ridiculous, we need a new plan.”_

 

_Fitz shook his head vehemently, “We’re not discussing it, Ok?  You’re taking it.  End of story.”   Pausing, he cast his eyes downward.  “I couldn’t live if you didn’t.”_

 

_Jemma cut him off abruptly, emotion causing her voice to escalate as she exclaimed, “Well, I feel the same way!  There has to be another way!  Why would you make me do this?  You’re my best friend in the world!”  She was shaking now, hands caught in his, tears falling free from her eyes, running down the soft slope to leave wet trails on her skin._

 

_The bus had pulled up and people were taking out tickets, forming a queue with hands tightly clasping the handles of large suitcases.  Fitz’s blue eyes were locked on hers as he shook his head helplessly.  “Well, you’re more than that, Jemma.”  He paused, eyes darting back to the ground.  “I couldn’t find the courage to tell you, so - please let me show you.”_

 

_Jemma’s arms came up around him as she pulled him forward, peppering his face with kisses and burying her head the soft crevice between his neck and shoulder.  “No,” she was gasping, repeating the word like a mantra, as though it could ever be enough to keep him by her side._

 

_“It’s ok,” he soothed, “We have to hurry up.”_

 

_The bus was nearly full now, the driver watching them impatiently as he checked his watch.  Fitz broke away, handing the portly man Jemma’s suitcase and pushing her gently to the door.  She was trembling in a cocktail of helplessness, defiance and betrayal, wracked with sobs as she boarded the bus, eyes pinned on his.  His figure shrank as the bus pulled away, Jemma twisting in her seat until she can no longer make out his familiar profile._

 

_***_

 

Jemma’s apartment is hung with shadows, the meager bare bulb insufficient to conquer the space.  She sets her keys lazily on the counter, still a bit tipsy from her night out, clumsily placing her phone on the counter and flicking on the electric kettle.  It isn’t until she’s nuzzled on the couch, mug in hand, that she notices she’s missed a call from her mum.  

 

The voicemail plays:  “Hey Jemma-bean.  I know it’s late, but I had some news and I thought you’d want to know straight away.  I hope you’re sitting down, dear.  There’s been an accident.  It’s Fitz.”  

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, disclaimer - all I know about memory loss I learned from an episode of 'This American Life'. So let's roll with it . . . ;)

Fitz.  It’s a name to which he doesn't belong, disappointed and unfamiliar faces falling when he says he doesn’t remember them.  It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, the metallic tang of unfulfilled expectations.  They want him to be a person he can no longer recognize.  

 

His mum’s is the only smile he can place, no matter how many brain injuries he sustains, he’ll always know the warm twinkle in her eye and the deep bark of her laughter.  She is helping him as he goes through Fitz’s things, deciding which articles will make the move back to England and which will be left behind with his memories.  He’s left sorting through the clues, piecing his identity back together through what Fitz has left behind.    

 

There are three things he knows about himself, the rest being lost, left churning in the endless expanse of the ocean.  He knows he is awkward.  Terribly awkward.  Despite his new struggle with language he senses the words have always come slowly, bearing the burden of unwanted hesitancy and poor direction.  

 

He knows his fingers itch to move, driven by instinct to dismantle and reassemble.  At first his hands lead the way, his mind gradually following and waking up as the muscle memory in his fingers takes over.  He hears he used to work in a lab, piecing together innovative electronics for popular consumption, but that life has vanished, replaced by a new job in a new city - a futile attempt to reclaim a home in the only country he can remember.      

 

Most of all, he knows he is alone.  He is a man without a past, with no clear line into the future.  Even his memories of the accident that now defines him are lost.  He has learned third hand about the research vessel and the storm.  Fitz had been left at the bottom of the ocean and the man now standing here, cross armed and musing in Fitz’s apartment, is new.  He is an uncontrolled variable.  

 

“Leo, dear - I’ve found some pictures.  You should come look at them and see if they help you remember anything.”

 

He frowns at the prospect of more disconnected faces, interspersed with a younger version of his own, in want of a context he cannot provide.  He’s tired of looking at photos, but the eagerness in his mother’s voice pulls him to her side, crouched before a shoebox filled with letters and old Polaroids.  

 

“Oh, I see,” she is clucking, “These are all things from Jemma.”  Pushing off against her legs she stands and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “I’ll leave you to it then.”

 

He sets himself in front of the box, placing the cover delicately by it’s side.  A slender brunette with large expressive brown eyes and dark auburn hair peeks at him from the old photographs.  Her dainty figure is paired with whom he imagines is himself at fourteen, nearly a head taller but painfully scrawny and pale. They are caught in the air over a  trampoline, joy radiating from their faces as they smile for the camera.

 

Placing the photo aside he sifts through the others, the young girl, Jemma, aging as he works his way through time.  She is sticking her tongue out at him, or they are standing together in lab coats, holding up a science award.  

 

A graduation picture.  He is dwarfed by the expanse of his black robe while Jemma stands elegantly beside him in hers, hair swept up in a tidy twist.  Where their arms are not linked, their fingers are entwined, almost eclipsed by the long sleeves of their gowns.  But it’s her face he finds himself tracing with his index finger as he pulls the photo in closer, this smile somehow disingenuous when mixed amongst all the others, her eyes twinkling from an almost excessive glassiness.  His own features  reveal the same forced happiness and the same wet sparkle catching in his eyes.    

 

He pauses and puts the lid back on.  He doesn’t remember, but he can  _ feel _ the press of her shoulder against his, the lump in his throat as he had fought against those tears.  These pictures, the letters, all seem too personal somehow, like an intrusion into something long left sleeping.  

  
  


***

 

Turbo.  It is what the large man calls him and for the moment he likes this name better than any other.  The man, Mack, is quiet patience, the sturdy anchor between his fits of frustration and helplessness.  They work together in the garage, mostly in silence and Mack doesn’t seem to mind the way he is always muttering softly to the ghost of his former self.   

 

Mack is there when he moves into his new London flat, effortlessly transporting the heavy boxes up four flights of stairs and his mother is sparkling, gratified her son has found a friend in this new town.     

 

“You should look up Jemma, love,” his mother is prattling as she pulls a stack of plates from their box and slides them into an unfamiliar home in the cupboard.  “I think she lives around here somewhere.  I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

 

He sighs.  It’s not the first time she’s made this comment but he continues the game.  “Yeah, mum.  Maybe.”  And she is satisfied, humming merrily and organizing the cups on the shelf.  

 

It is late when his mother finally kisses him on the cheek and heads to bed.  He’d insisted on giving her his room until the following day, surprising her with a reminder of her poor night vision and an anecdote about the time she drove into the neighbor’s fence.  Finally she’d relented with a yawn and marched off to unpack the sheets.  

 

Left alone in his new living room he stacks the empty boxes neatly in the corner.  What possessions Fitz had were few, the collection made even leaner after his careful weeding.  It is strange to be surrounded by belongings both his and not, almost as though he has been left to decipher Fitz through a code embedded in the ridiculous agglomeration of cardigans, or hidden in the pieces to his erector set.  It’s hard to know what secrets are tucked away in the souped up roomba.     

 

It is clear to see that Fitz had been brilliant in a way he could never retrieve.  Between the tremble in his bad hand and the headaches sustained after minimal reading, genius feels a far off concept.  He wonders what Fitz would think if he knew how far they’d fallen, applying their talent to changing oil and replacing the gas lines in beat up old Volkswagens.  

 

But despite his former brilliance, there is something missing amongst Fitz’s stockpile of books and stuffed monkeys.  There had been no pictures on the fridge, no framed photographs or postcards.  He hadn’t found any novelty coffee mugs lurking in the cabinet.  After the accident he’d had few visitors, only his mum and a handful work colleagues that never returned.  Fitz, he realizes, had been a man with only his mum, his work, and a box full of memories.  Memories that are now left unrealized.  He is in possession of someone else’s secrets.    

 

He takes out Fitz’s phone, scans the meagre list of recent text messages and clicks her name.  The correspondence barely predates the accident.  

 

[Jemma]:  That’s because it’s January, and you’re in Boston.

  
[Fitz]:  I don’t have to be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like what I was trying to accomplish with this chapter was ambitious, so if it did or did not work for you - please let me know! ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! *high five*


	3. Chapter 3

Jemma Simmons is collapsing under the weight of an artificial silence.  She realizes now, despite the ocean separating them, despite the tension pushing them apart, Fitz has always answered her call.  His messages were her lifeline and without him she is untethered.  All these years it has been his voice in her ears, his name on her lips.  She has become a ghost wrapped in the softness of their shared history.   

 

She waits 9 days to hear that Fitz is out of the coma, her phone as constant a presence in her hand as the tears on her cheeks.  Her eyes refuse to focus, her hands persist in trembling.  When the call finally comes (he will live) the world regains its color and breath finds its way to her lungs.  

 

Details are scarce after that.  There is memory loss, her mother says.  They are unsure how much.  

 

He is coming home.  

 

_ How much _ of him will be coming home?  

 

***

 

_ “What’s that?” Jemma asked, face pressed in the narrow space separating planks in the collapsing wooden fence.  She was peering at the light haired boy as he sighed furiously at the machine in his hands.  “Is it a robot?” _

 

_ He didn’t look up, but she knew he’d seen her because the sighing stopped and his fingers stilled.  Jemma had seen him out there before accompanied by any manner of mechanical devices, usually scattered in pieces on the back step and shrouded in the shadow of his sulking, huffing form.   _

 

_ “What’s your name?” she tried again, this time earning a curious head tilt and a pair of narrowed eyes.  “I’m Jemma and I’m eight.  Are you eight?  My mum says you are.” _

 

_ He didn’t respond, but his expression softened as he turned over the device in his hands and allowed himself to sneak a sheepish glance in her direction.  It had been three weeks since they’d moved in next door, this boy and his mum with their matching blonde curls and tear streaked faces.  Her mother had brought over a basket, Jemma peeking out from behind the grown woman’s legs to meet blue eyes, exactly at her level, settled in the face of the boy who played with machines.   _

 

_ “Your robot’s not working because you forgot to ground the circuit,” she offered and his head snapped in her direction, clearly surprised.   _

 

_ By the time he answered, his gaze had already timidly returned to the ground, “Thanks.”  He was scuffing his foot against the step.  “I, um, missed that.  My dad used to tell me I work too fast sometimes.”    _

 

_ Jemma’s smile was pulled wide with the victory of his response and after a few fleeting looks, he finally met her eyes and grinned back.  “They used to call him Fitz.” he continued, encouraged.  “So, you can call me that too.”   _

 

***

 

Jemma sees him first and freezes, the door to the garage jangling as it swings shut behind her.  The space itself is tidy, a small waiting room with economical looking chairs abutting the narrow reception area.  Her lungs have suddenly stopped working and she is trapped in the doorway trying desperately to choke down air past this new tightness in her chest.  Fitz hasn’t yet looked up from where he’s tucked in behind the counter, gray cardigan wrapped loosely around his shoulders, sandy curls cut short.

 

Then it occurs to her.  It was Skye who had recommended Mack’s garage, lavishing praise until Jemma couldn’t say no.   _ Skye _ .  Leave it to Skye to follow up on leads she could not bring herself to follow. 

 

Jemma’s annoyance, however, is cancelled out by fear.  Fear of the empty expression he’s saved for a stranger.  He won’t remember her.  

Yet where she expected to find vacancy in the blue expanse she instead finds warmth.  Curiosity.  When Fitz finally turns his head in her direction the effort seems to pull him to his feet and he is staring at her, lips set in an uneasy smile.  He’s wringing his hands, massaging his knuckles nervously.  His light eyes admit nothing.  They hide no excitement, no embarrassment, no regret. 

 

Nervously she returns his shy smile, but it feels flimsy on her lips.  

“Hi Fitz.”

 

“H-hi,” he returns with reticence, his hand jumping up to tug at his earlobe and he blinks at her.    

 

He is examining her for the first time but she's tracing lines long since memorized, the straight edge of his brow and gentle slope of his shoulders.  He has broadened slightly in the space of four years, stubble scraping a maturity across features once pink with the luster of youth.  Her fingers yearn to brush his cheeks, to rediscover the weight of his chin in her palm, but instead she walks stiffly toward him, inwardly gasping at every captured glance.    

 

“I’ve actually brought my car in for something - I wasn’t expecting . . ., but I’m glad . . . what?” Jemma curses herself as she trips over the words, but she is caught in the intensity of his stare and they are lost.  Fitz’s hand has travelled to the small of his back as he leans away from his counter.  His expression is a riddle.

 

“You look different, that’s all,” he says, answering the question she hasn’t asked - then catches himself, “from your photos, I mean.  Not bad different, just . . .” he trails off, words escaping into the warm atmosphere of the garage.  They are all halting breaths and awkward pauses, Jemma artlessly dumps her keys on the counter and blinks excessively.  

 

“You don’t remember me, then?” Jemma asks in a whisper.  He seems suddenly bitter and it burns.   

 

“No.”

 

Jemma presses her lips  together in a line, nodding her head quietly.  Her eyes have escaped to the ceiling, caging tears that threaten to fall, but it’s his voice that calls them back to the delicate planes of his face, stiffened by this fleeting moment of confidence.  “But I’d like to.”

 

A large man with coffee skin walks in to clap a hand on Fitz’s shoulder before his face becomes a reflection of the awkward moment he has interrupted.  

 

“Jemma Simmons?  I’m Mack.” he says carefully, extending a firm hand, “You called this morning for an appointment?”  

 

Jemma gathers herself and pulls her expression into a polite smile.   “Yes.  I’m glad you could fit me in.  I was hoping you could take a look at my car?  It’s been grinding every time I turn the wheel.  Like a growl.”  

 

“Sounds like a bad wheel bearing to me, eh, Turbo?” the man says with a knowing glance at his partner.  Fitz has sunk even further into the counter, avoiding her gaze, but Mack’s attention causes him to straighten as he hands over the keys he’s picked up from the counter.  “Think you could take a look at it?”

 

“Yeah, um - If y-you need m-my help, I suppose I’ve got some time.”  Fitz responds weakly.  He throws a last timid look in Jemma’s direction before swinging the back door open and vanishing behind it.  She’s left standing there, Mack watching her under lifted eyebrows as he hands her a clipboard.  

 

She barely hears him as he says, “Just fill in the information here and we should have it back to you by this afternoon.”  

***

 

_ They were walking home from some party senior year.  It was late and the moonlight caught in Fitz’s curls like a halo, catching in his eyes as they twinkled with laughter.  Her chest was warm with the shots she’d taken, her cheeks pink despite the shadows.  Jemma knew there was a slight lilt to her stride, her smile perhaps a bit wider than it should have been. She wasn’t sure whether or not it was the alcohol that caused her gaze to linger on her friend as he casually kept pace beside her, teeth flashing white as they passed under a street lamp, his arm gently bracing her with each stumble, but she didn’t care.     _

 

_ As they approached her door, she turned to him with a brazen smile.  “You didn’t have to walk me home, you know.  It’ll take you forever to get back across town.” _

 

_ Fitz’s hand shot up to rub the back of his neck as he eyed the sidewalk below.  “I wasn’t going to let you walk home alone, Jemma.  Besides, I like the night air.  It helps, um, clear my head.”   _

 

_ She’d tilted her head slightly to the side, her mocking grin growing soft and she reached out to twist her fingers in his.  “Well, thank you.” _

 

_ It could have been the moonlight catching on the angles of his face or the familiar way he shrugged off every sweet gesture, or, more pointedly, the unfamiliar question she read in his expression, his brow slightly furrowing as he drew his hand away.  But Jemma found herself on her toes, leaning forward to press a kiss onto that soft cheek, blushing fiercely as she returned to the ground and noted the sudden awe made evident by Fitz’s gaping mouth and wide eyes.   _

 

_ “Goodnight, Fitz.” _

 

_ “Goodnight, Jemma.”  _

 

***

Jemma has been practicing the line over and over again.   _ Effortless _ , she reminds herself as she swings open the glass door to the garage and confronts a startled Fitz at the counter.  

 

“Will you have coffee with me?”  The words tumble out with a velocity all their own and Jemma stands there, arms limp at her side.  

 

Fitz is mute, mouth slightly gaping, but Jemma is already mortified, replaying the moment in her head and inwardly groaning at her boldness.  

 

“Y-your car is ready,” he says finally, breaking Jemma from her reverie.  

 

“Will you have coffee with me?”  She asks again, firmer this time with more confidence.  It is a moment before she sees the request has registered, that he finally believes her, and Fitz nods his head.  

 

“I’d l-like that.”

 

“Brilliant.”  A smile breaks across his face, a mirror of her own.  It is a start.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, EzWriter and I worked so hard to get the right balance with this chapter. She made me throw out this whole angsty vignette I wrote and everything! So anyway, I hope the decisions we made about their first meeting and tone, etc. are what you'd hoped for!!
> 
> Also - I'm going to TRY to keep to my Wednesday posting schedule next week . . . but the RL is insane right now and my writing progress has just been so slow lately anyway (I'm looking at you, FS Kiss Prompt!!), so I'm apologizing in advance in case it takes me a bit longer to update. But I'll try!! *all fingers are crossed*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to J for the concept, EzWriter for finding me that poem I didn't use (!), and AmandaRex who is amazing and always catches me when I'm being lazy with the details. 
> 
> Hope you like this one!

A makeshift stage has been set up at the back of the bar, forcing the crowd to collect artificially around the edges.  Mack, however, perhaps by authority of his size, has secured a small table in the corner with a good view and a full pitcher.  He seems somehow to know everyone, clapping his enormous hand warmly on shoulders and exuding a quiet affability.  He seemed unruffled by the eclectic mix of artists and vagabonds, unfazed in the face of their differences.

 

He’d witnessed Mack’s affinity for words from the start.  It had been evident in the rogue crosswords littering the shop, tucked between invoices or hiding in file cabinets.  The battered notebook, constantly being drawn from Mack’s back pocket to house ideas, had also not failed to escape notice.  Only he hadn’t known it was for _this._  The poetry had been a surprise.  

 

They’d had a Volkwagen on the lift, Mack’s hands busy inspecting the fuel lines, when he’d casually asked, “You like poetry, Turbo?  I’ve got something going on this Friday night.  You should come.  You could invite that pretty friend of yours.”  

 

And strangely it had resulted in this - sitting perched atop a tall bar stool, waiting for his first poetry slam.  Waiting for _her_ with his heart in his throat.   

 

Jemma had unknowingly been taunting him even before appearing unexpected and unannounced at the garage, all quiet boldness and soft smiles.  Her number had been staring at him from Fitz’s phone, her picture popping up on Fitz’s laptop, old e-mail correspondences haunting him from Fitz’s inbox.  She was inescapable.  

 

They’d met for coffee, trudging their way through the awkward pauses until his fidgeting managed to uproot her mug and suddenly her entire bag was covered in the hot brown liquid.  Many apologies later, they’d managed to sop up the mess, laying out her soggy possessions to dry on the table.  And somehow, between napkin runs, the tension between them just dissolved.  They were leaning together over her waterlogged notes, exchanging ideas, laughing between thoughts and at the ridiculousness of their situation.  They were friends, both old and new, meeting again for the first time.  

 

“I’m thinking of going by Leo,” he’d confessed, but this had only drawn a chuckle, bringing a sparkle to those brown eyes that danced.  

 

“That’s what I call you when I’m angry.”

 

“Really?  Wouldn’t want that, then.”

 

And so he has become Fitz again, if only on the surface.  For her.  Because the name on her lips is his new favorite sound.  

 

He suspects this nervousness in his stomach isn’t new.  Without the facts for support, he can’t be sure, but the nausea that rolls as he scans the crowd for her face - it’s familiar, and he wonders if every version of Fitz hasn’t been in awe of Jemma Simmons.  

 

“Fitz!  I’m so glad I found you!” Jemma exclaims breathlessly as she approaches the table and sets herself down in the chair beside him.  She’s dressed sharply in black, her hair tied up in a loose pony tail, and he thinks she could be a beat poet herself, the way her red lipstick stands out against her freckles.  

 

She doesn’t see that he is staring at her, too preoccupied pouring herself a drink and evaluating the crowd.  “Such a good turn out!  Mack must be pleased.”

 

Nodding his head in agreement, his tongue is suddenly thick and lazy in his mouth, but she only smiles.  She is unaware that in this space, pregnant with words waiting to be spoken, she has stolen his.  

 

***

 

He is different and the same, both familiar and foreign.  Her Fitz.  (Or she wants him to be)

 

His knee thumps against the leg of the rickety table, almost as if it is alone responsible for caging the nervous energy painted across his features, the eyes that flicker from her own to the table, the jaw clenched in a tight line.

 

Mack joins them occasionally, something almost playful (a smirk?) hiding behind the facade of stoicism.  Jemma doesn’t miss the way his eyebrows lift toward Fitz in encouragement or the way he gently coaxes language from his friend in a manner that is patient but not condescending.  It’s a skill of which she is jealous - her own conversations with Fitz feel so painfully manufactured.  She is filled with what it feels she _should_ say or what she shouldn’t and when she invariably says the wrong thing, he collapses inward, mute.   

 

Jemma had been surprised by his invitation, pleased to hear the lilt of his Scottish accent on the other end of the phone.  The old Fitz had only texted, they’d never spoken on the phone except to argue.  It is a subtle newness accumulating with everything different about him.  A poetry slam?  He would have never considered it.  But this Fitz - the one trading desperate looks with Mack while his fingers dance against the side of his pint glass - this Fitz is brave.  

 

Impulsively, she captures his restless hand in hers, laying it to rest on the table with a gentle squeeze.  His eyes snap to her face before his lips slide into a bashful smile and, encouraged, Jemma slips her palm against his.  

 

The lights dim and a tiny woman with colored ropes of hair approaches the mic.  Her voice is forceful despite the contradiction of her stature, the words twisting on her tongue while a drum beats hollowly from the shadows.  Jemma is able to steal snippets of conversation from Fitz between poets, although the array of talent commands a certain attention.  But when Mack climbs on stage, the crowd falls silent.  

 

The percussive rhythm of clashing consonants and puncturing pauses hits the mic as Mack’s deep baritone reverberates around them.  He is painting pictures in words, making music in the silence between notes.  As Jemma sneaks a glance at Fitz, she sees he is spellbound, his knee finally ceasing its bounce to rest limply against the leg of the table.  

 

The tension in Mack’s story is building, the lines crashing mercilessly against one another as the pace quickens.  His voice is thunder, and the articulation ticks on his tongue like the rain against a tin roof.  

 

The final note is a blistering crescendo without resolution.  Mack’s voice has left a void in the cavernous silence as the crowd, left suspended in the wake of his song, slowly wakes from its stupor.   

 

Mack straightens against the mic, letting his hand hang down by his side and the audience ignites with applause.  Fitz is on his feet, whistling between the two fingers of his free hand, but he has not released her grasp.  He is not pulling away.  

 

“That was incredible!”  Fitz exclaims as the lights come up.   It is intermission and Mack has joined them back at the table, soaking up the praise with a smug grin.  The sun stretches across every corner of Fitz’s face and, Jemma notes, his aphasia has subsided in the glow of his enthusiasm.  

 

“You know,” Mack says, emptying his pint glass, “Turbo here didn’t even want to come.”

 

“That’s not surprising, really,” Jemma replies, leaning across the table conspiratorially.  “The old Fitz hated poetry. Very literal.”

 

There is something in the way Fitz’s eyes suddenly dull, the slight droop infiltrating his shoulders, that instantly makes Jemma regret her teasing.  She’s seen this before - Fitz almost recapturing himself before quickly deflating, becoming unreadable.  It’s her.  She makes him worse.  

 

Jemma swallows a mouthful of air before interjecting, “I’m going to get some air, I think.  Just a bit warm in here.  Excuse me.”

 

She is running away again.  

 

***   

 

_It had been over six months - six months since she had felt the warmth of his hand in hers, since she’d seen the sheen of tears on his cheeks, since she’d boarded that bus to the airport and felt her old life slip away.  Between the fullness of their new schedules and the time zones between them, his voice had faded to an unrelenting ache in her chest, his face imprinted only in her memory._

 

_They’d spent every Christmas together for ten years, sneaking through the cold to deliver presents on one another’s back steps or curling up on the couch to watch the Dr. Who Christmas Special.  Why was this year different?  He was already slipping away, and when she got the news he wasn’t coming home for the holidays, she had come undone - enough to finally insist on seeing him, even if it was just a video chat._

 

_“But why?”_

 

_Eventually she broke the silence, almost daring herself to look straight ahead into the eyes that weren’t really his - because he wasn’t really there.  His face was a lie, a trick of light and engineering._

 

_Fitz’s pixilated image was captured on the screen and his movements and speech would have been stiff, halted by the inconsistency of her wifi connection, had it not been for the awkward silence currently filling the cyberspace between them.  Even the speakers had been more communicative, breaking in with the occasional crack or pop, but Jemma was exhausted with the effort of pulling conversation out of him, each stream drying up the moment she let go the thread._

 

_“You know why,” he answered, finally.  There was a pause and then he continued, “I need to get established here, Jemma.  I can’t afford to take a vacation so soon.”_

 

_She didn’t know if he could see her crying, if the wet tracks of her tears were visible despite her reduced size, confined in her digital frame.  “But we haven’t spent a Christmas apart since we met,” Jemma pleaded, weakly._

 

_Fitz’s eyes were cast down to the floor, his shoulders clipped from view.  “This is different, Jemma.”_

 

_“Everything is different.”_

 

***

 

She slips through the crowd like silk through his fingers, all haste caught in the whisper of a breeze.  He jumps from his seat to follow, the abrupt departure earning a raised eyebrow from Mack, but he doesn’t stop to waste words.  He is pushing through the crowd, chasing the swing of her ponytail as it escapes through the pub’s heavy wooden door.    

 

As he meets Jemma on the sidewalk, she has raised soothing arms to wrap around trembling shoulders and he watches as she draws a large mouthful of air.  She is illuminated by an adjacent streetlamp, casting her figure in gold as she stands there, staring at him without speaking.

 

“J-Jemma,” he says her name and her face convulses with a blend of joy and sorrow.  He doesn’t understand.  “What happened?  What happened between you and Fitz?”

 

She shrugs, her lips pulling tight.  “What do you mean?”

 

His gaze falls to the ground, settling on the concrete below, peppered in cigarette butts and the lingering stains of forgotten adventures.  “I remember sometimes,” he says softly.

 

The intensity of Jemma’s gaze is hard to ignore, but he pushes on.  “Just the edges of things, really.  The end of a quarrel, the way your hair looks in the rain.  Nothing solid.”

 

Jemma releases a breath, arms loosening to hug at her waistline.  “There was a misunderstanding - an argument.  But always we were friends.  Best friends.  Nothing could change that.”  

 

He bobs his head in understanding.  His hand had snaked up to rest anxiously against the back of his neck, something he’d seen Fitz do in photographs - a gesture they had in common, he’d supposed.  

 

“I’m - I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment,” the words tumble out before he can stop them, muttered soft and low against his chest, but she catches them anyway.

 

“No.  Never,” she answers immediately, forcefully.  “Fitz, you’ve been nothing less than extraordinary this whole time.”

 

He meets her eyes then, and he can feel it - the way they’d once spoken without talking.  He can feel himself finishing her sentences, standing by her side in the lab - flashes of memories, like piecing together a puzzle with no supporting image.  

 

“Will you come back inside with me?” He asks and she smiles.  It is real and wide, relaxing the crease that has formed across her brow and lighting in her eyes.  

  
“I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fingers crossed* Really going to try to stick to my Wednesday posting schedule, but I can't promise anything.  
> And thanks for reading! Your comments are always such a joy and I really appreciate all the support! *sends hugs and chocolate!*


	5. Chapter 5

Fitz’s story comes back to him in a collection of disconnected fragments, but she is always at the center.  Jemma laying on her stomach, feet swinging in the air as she scribbles notes from her bed.  Jemma stealing the popcorn when his head is turned.  She is leaning over a microscope, goggles perched precariously on her forehead.  She is asleep with her head in his lap.  

 

In the monotonous and monochrome moments of Fitz’s fractured memory, she is red lipstick and pink cheeks, she is the laughter trained in his bones, she is the sun on his face.  

 

And here he is standing outside her apartment with his hand poised at the door, a bottle of cheap wine stuffed under his arm.  He is cursing, eyes fixed on the ceiling because the words come in fragments too and when she opens the door he won’t know what to say.  

 

***

Jemma swings the door open to find Fitz on the other side, nervous shoulders pulled together, a shy smile twisting at the corners of his mouth.  

 

“You’re early!” she exclaims, full of excitement betrayed by the pitch of her voice, and she reaches out to grab him by the elbow and tug him through the door.  It is a reflex - closing the distance, drawing Fitz into her space and he is smiling now as he tumbles into her apartment, his eyes scanning the room with curiosity.  He offers a bottle of wine and she takes it, their fingers chasing at the contact as he follows her to the kitchen.    

 

There are silences between them now that never existed before, played off as a repercussion of his accident.  But Jemma can feel the difference.  They are tangible.  Before, there were frustrated silences, like a taut violin string, ready to break, or angry silences that filled her ears with unspoken words.  But this silence, it is a held breath.  It is like waiting.   

 

Fitz hasn’t stopped moving, mindlessly opening drawers or peeking at the spinach artichoke dip in the oven.  He is a vibration that cannot be stilled.  

 

Jemma clears her throat.  “Should I open it?” she asks, nodding at the Merlot on the counter.  Fitz smiles weakly.  

 

“Sure?  I dunno.  It’s probably not very good.  I was always rubbish at picking out that stuff.”  His nervous eyes flick back and forth, as Jemma is closing the distance again, reaching up to grab wine glasses above his right shoulder.  She sees him tense but he does not move, and she is suspended in his space, the glasses hanging loosely between fingers that ache to smooth the crease in his brow.  

 

Jemma loses her grip as the doorbell rings.  There is a crash and the moment shatters.  

 

***

 

Fitz is slipping between what is old and new and it is almost seamless.  He is a person in draft.  

 

Jemma’s apartment feels like her, like precision and laughter.  Fitz bends to help collect the pieces of glass on the floor as Jemma reaches for the dustpan.  He is used to mending what is broken. 

 

“I’ll get the door,” he offers, lifting his eyebrows apologetically but she is smiling, almost ruefully ( _ is it disappointment? _ ) and she lets out an partially exasperated breath.  

 

“Jemma?”

 

She looks up and his words finally register, evident in the surprised circle of her mouth and wide eyes, and she nods, “Yes.  Thank you, Fitz.”

 

He retreats carefully, making sure not to disturb the mess, and the living room is intimidating and empty without her in it, static and mocking.  The silence is almost an accusation - he is Fitz and he is not.  As if a space itself could know when someone doesn’t belong.  Jemma will realize it soon, he imagines, more evenings like this, where he can only bite on the words that live on the tip of his tongue.       

 

But Jemma’s friends are a quick distraction, a cheerful brunette and a handsome black man who slaps a warm hand on Fitz’s shoulder and introduces himself as Trip.  

 

“You better get your cute butt out here, Simmons!” hollars the girl, Skye, with a cheeky grin as they filter into the living room.  She is sizing him up, but there is an easiness to her sideways glances and the way she smiles at him like they share a secret.  “So  _ you’re _ Fitz?” 

 

He shrugs - how else should he respond? - and he looks past her to the wall of bookshelves.  It’s a bad habit he imagines has always belonged to him, looking at people without seeing and seeing people without looking.  And he moves to close himself off, stiffening under their scrutiny and the unwelcome hesitancy of his tongue.  

 

Meeting people is still difficult.  If he remembers correctly (which he doesn’t) it has always been that way, Leo Fitz, who, even when he could talk, never knew the right thing to say.  Who alienated his classmates with gadgets and annoyed his teachers by second guessing them.  Until there was Jemma.  Brown eyes and warmth, peppering him with questions until he wasn’t afraid anymore.  

 

She enters the room like a breath in his lungs.  And she is smiling. 

 

He remembers her smile now, and somehow it’s always been there, even when he couldn’t find it.  Jemma smiles even in the darkness, when he broke his arm, when her parents separated.  At the end of the world, as the sky falls around their shoulders, she will still be smiling and telling him it’s going to be okay.    

 

Skye pulls Jemma into an enthusiastic hug and hands her a small casserole dish.  “Oh lord, what did you make?”  She asks, wincing in jest and Skye bats her playfully on the arm.  

 

“It was going to be brownies, but I caved under Trip ' s good influence,” she replies reproachfully, “It’s a green bean dip.  But don’t worry, it’s actually better than it sounds.”

 

Trip greets Jemma warmly with a kiss on her the cheek.  “Just you wait.  One bite and you’ll want to finish the whole dish.”  

 

The food proves to be a good icebreaker, Fitz remaining unconvinced green beans are ever a good idea and Trip determined as ever to sway him.  Jemma and Skye are laughing and he almost thinks he could fit here again, next to this girl with clever eyes and a clever spirit.  The girl who diverts conversation when he starts slipping, who curls her fingers in his shaking hand when he thinks he’ll never be able to make it stop.  He could reclaim his spot as best friend.  Except - even the old Fitz knew friendship could never be enough.

 

He might even be able to relax if Jemma didn’t looked so pretty, auburn hair framing her face, her eyes sparkling when she giggles at his jokes.  She slides in next to him on the couch and they are drifting in and out of old patterns, alternating between the casual, familiar closeness of old friends and the charged contact of something more.  Her fingers slide against his arm, their shoulders brush.  It is electricity.      

 

But he is a record on pause, willing himself to spin.  

 

***

 

It is partially unconscious but Jemma has been cataloguing the changes - the new mannerisms and tremble of his fingers, the careful way he composes his words to hide the stutter, the angry flare of determination in his eyes when he slips.   

 

He is all the pieces of Fitz rearranged in a new order.  He is brave.  He is cranky.  And she has  _ missed _ him.  He is sitting on the floor, shoulder pressed into hers, and Jemma can feel his warmth like salve in a wound so long untended.  She sneaks looks at him the way a child sneaks candy, revelling in the novelty of it, cherishing it’s sweetness.  Yet, how he can be both more bold and equally more shy than before remains a mystery.  She drinks in his smiles anyway, enjoying the way his eyes dash to the floor and his cheeks color.    

 

They have decided to rotate the couch to face the chalkboard, Skye eager to take a picture of Jemma’s old musings before wiping the slate clean.  It is pictionary the way Jemma had always played it with her family - open a book and pick a word, make it abstract - and Skye is drawing a mustachioed man with a dark hat when she hears Fitz’s voice belt “Mysterious!” before the timer sounds.  

 

“Damn it!” Skye laments, throwing her hands in the air and shaking her head at Trip.  “They’re killing us!”  

 

Skye sits down and Jemma reaches for a high five before handing Fitz the chalk.  “I feel the term annihilate is perhaps more accurate, but let’s not mince words,” she says, smug as she tosses the book at her friends and winks in Fitz’s direction.  

 

In all honesty, it almost reminds her of their university days, fiercely out-competing any rivals at trivia night, or decimating classmates in any academic tournament.  He’d started out tenuous, almost wary, eyeing the chalk with an unwarranted suspicion.  She could see it in his eyes.  Fear. 

 

But now Fitz is charged with the thrill of victory as he takes center stage before the chalkboard, waiting for Trip to lean in and whisper his word.  

 

A grin spreads across his face as he begins to draw, wide and knowing, and he starts by sketching stars, frantically keeping pace with her guesses and he throws up his hands to resist gesturing at her with his chalk.  Fitz is making a thin rectangle with doors and panels when Jemma calls out, “Spacious!” and he throws his hands up in victory.  

 

Skye rolls her eyes.  “Look, I know that’s a TARDIS, but what the hell?”

 

“What?” Fitz scoffs, indignantly, “It’s bigger on the inside.”

 

“Yes.  Perfectly logical,” Jemma continues and it’s nice, this warm feeling in her chest as he beams at her.  It feels like home.     

 

***

 

Fitz closes his eyes to preserve this moment, this smile, and Jemma’s eyes, alive with their win and warmed by wine.  Her hand is resting mindlessly on his arm as they sit around the coffee table and he is just watching her, unable to control the goofy grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.  How can something be familiar and new at the same time?  

 

Skye has been increasingly melting into Trip’s chest, her limbs tired and limp by the time he drags her up and they prepare for their exit.  Jemma is packing food and kissing cheeks, and almost without noticing, the apartment falls quiet.  

 

“I guess I’d better . . .” Fitz trails off fingers drumming against the container Jemma has packed for him.  He is all agitated movements with stalled intention, because what he wants to do, what he has wanted to do for a while, is kiss her.  But he can’t bring himself to move.  

 

The light is still dancing in her eyes, her cheeks pink against the ivory of her throat, and he knows she is talking but all he hears is static.  

 

“Fitz?  I was going to ask if you wanted to bring home the rest of your wine,” Jemma’s voice is high.  She’s nervous.  

 

“You keep it,” he struggles with the words, his mouth dry and tongue metallic.  Their fingers brush as she hands him his jacket and his heart lurches in his chest.  He’s desperate to look away, but he can’t sustain it.  He craves her face like his lungs burn for oxygen.

 

“Jemma -” the words stall in his throat.  She is looking at him but he stares at the floor.  “It’s just - I . . . This.”  He swallows, “This was nice.”

 

Three words and Jemma’s face is the sun, her smile white and open and she leans over, kissing him on the cheek.  The brush of her lips against his skin, the heat of contact, and Fitz can’t be sure there aren’t tears in her eyes.  Is he still breathing?  

 

Jemma pulls away, humming in contentment.  “Very.”

 

***

 

_ Jemma took one last look in the mirror and smoothed her dress.  Perhaps it was overkill, hugging her hips in a way that was unsuitable for the season, but Fitz had always liked her in blue and, well, she wanted that.  That’s all she was these days when it came to him, just want.     _

 

_ Adjusting her hair one last time and rolling her lips, she started when there was a knock at the door.  Was he early? _

 

_ “Dr. Simmons?”  It was Ward. _

 

_ “Yes, just a moment.”  Jemma replied, annoyed, taking one last glance around the small hotel room and grabbing her purse.  When she opened the door, he was standing their with his bag over his shoulder his eyebrows lifted in surprise. _

 

_ “Awfully formal to sit for six hours on a plane?” Ward remarked, sliding his arms across his chest inquisitively.   _

 

_ “What?  We’re not leaving until tomorrow,” she answered, ducking her head as she slips a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.  “And I’ve got plans.” _

 

_ “No, that’s why I’m here.  Coulson says there’s a storm moving in.  We have to catch the red eye tonight or we’ll get snowed in.  You need to pack you bags.” _

 

_ Jemma just stared at him.    _

 

_ “Did you hear me, Simmons?  I came to collect you.  We leave in 10 minutes.” _

 

_ “No - I can’t,” she choked.  “I have plans.” _

 

_ Ward was talking but his voice was small in her ears, distant.  It was like the sound of her heart breaking.   _

 

_ *** _

_ The silence on the other end of the line was worse than anything.   _

 

_ “Say something, Fitz.” _

 

_ He huffed.  “I’m just disappointed, that’s all.” _

 

_ And it was true.  She could hear it in his voice.  She could hear it in every breath, in the space between words.  She felt it too. _

 

_ “And you think I’m not?  What was I supposed to do?” _

 

_ “I dunno, Jemma.  It’s just -” his voice came out threadbare.  “You could have stayed.  If you’d wanted to.” _

 

_ She couldn’t speak - he’d stolen the air from her lungs.   _

 

_ “That’s not fair,” she whispered.  If she closed her eyes she could see him, eyes rimmed red as he bounced with the nervous energy that always took over when he was angry.  She knew he was pacing, hands pinching at the bridge of his nose.   _

 

_ “Yeah,” he said bitterly.  “Well, that’s nothing new.” _

 

_ Something inside her snapped.  “Stop it, Fitz.  Stop pretending.”  She was gasping now.  “I shouldn’t have to wait three years and overcome a blizzard to see you.  Did you even apply for that job I sent you in the Sci-Tech Engineering lab here, Fitz?”   _

 

_ “Simmons,” he was pleading.  “You know how it is.  I’ve been building something -” _

 

_ “I know things have been difficult between us since I went to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., but I need you to understand that I didn’t leave because - ” Her words spilled out, loose and rambling before he cut her off.    _

 

_ “No, no no, Jemma, Jemma, please -” His words - they came out broken.  “Cos I’ve a whole - I’ve been thinking.”  He paused and the world was either blank or bending or both.  Jemma clutched the phone until her fingers were white.   _

 

_ “I think we want different things,” he continued.   _

 

_ She closed her eyes, forcing tears down her cheeks.  His words circled in her ears, but she couldn’t imagine him now.   _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . I wish there were an infinite number of apologies I could give to all you lovely people who have read and commented and left kudos on this fic for taking, what - months? to finish this chapter. Approximately a week after I posted chapter 4 - my life completely fell apart. I was so emotionally exhausted, I stopped reading, I couldn't bring myself to write anything. 
> 
> In the meantime - visiting the comments to this fic is what kept me going to push through this next chapter. I can't thank you enough for reading and leaving your feedback. I'm hoping for 2 more chapters, but I have no idea when you can expect them. Thanks for understanding. 
> 
> Also - the warmest of warm hugs to AmandaRex, for being a friend in a dark time, for being my sounding board and just helping me make my writing a whole hell of a lot better. All the love to you, friend.

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to the usual suspects, J for the present tense and Ez for the beta and late night tequila soaked outlining, and to amanda-rex for being my sounding board when I thought this idea was crazy! 
> 
> Feedback is so helpful and appreciated, so please leave comments and let me know what you think!


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